


What's for Dinner?

by lemonsorbae



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Domestic, Domestic, Fluff, Food, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-06-08
Packaged: 2017-12-14 08:42:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonsorbae/pseuds/lemonsorbae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When they first moved in together, Cas was a horrible cook. Not even the next door neighbor’s dog would eat his peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. But then three years had gone by, Cas was a magnificent cook (Dean almost preferred him in the kitchen to the bedroom because have you tried his mini Philly Cheesesteaks?!) and because Dean had said “I love you” for the first time around a mouthful of Cas’s very first homemade apple pie, it only seemed right that the next step in their relationship involve Cas in the kitchen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's for Dinner?

**Author's Note:**

> Saw [this](http://castielsangelpeen.tumblr.com/post/40811300776/saltroundsandkevlars) gif set, saw the prompt/suggestion, ran with it. The end. (This is un-betaed and sorely needs to be edited. Oops.)

When they first moved in together, Cas was a horrible cook. Not even the next door neighbor’s dog would eat his peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. And really, Dean didn’t mind. In fact, anytime he’d see Castiel in the kitchen, what looked to be the beginnings of another attempt at a meal spread out on the counter, Dean would wander in, kiss Cas on the temple, squeeze his ass and say “it’s okay, baby, I’ll cook tonight.” And Cas knew it was Dean’s way of saying “if I have to choke down one more concoction of yours I might have to leave you” but he’d just leave the kitchen quietly and try to catch up on work, tucking the frustration away in a corner where it would eat away at him slowly. 

Dean was a great cook, really. But his skills were limited and Cas could only handle so many nights worth of lasagna or burgers or pancakes (which Dean had argued, yes, were perfectly suitable for dinner). Besides that, Castiel’s mother had always taught him the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach and if that was the truth then Cas was failing miserably. 

It was this fact that had Cas wide awake at 2am, staring at the ceiling, Dean dozing next to him (Dean never really fell asleep until he could feel Cas’s deep, even breathing beside him). “I’m going to do this.” Castiel announced into the darkened room.

“Mmmmm?” Dean asked, eyes still closed, arms tucked around the pillow under his head. Castiel rolled over to face him.

“I’m going to learn to cook.” he stated.

“Okay, baby.” Dean mumbled, shifting a little so his legs were flat out underneath him.

“No, Dean, I need you to take this seriously. I feel like my manhood depends on this. I’m going to learn to cook and once I do you’re never going to want to leave the dining room table again.” 

Dean squinted his eyes open and studied his boyfriend. Cas’s blue eyes were serious and determined and Dean wondered how long this issue had been eating away at Cas’s ego. 

“Okay, Cas.” he said more coherently, letting Castiel know he was being taken seriously just like he wanted. 

Cas smiled and dropped a kiss on Dean’s lips before rolling back onto his back. “Okay.” he said and then sleep finally came. 

Cas started out slow; adding complimentary seasonings to Velveeta and shells or cinnamon to packaged oatmeal in the mornings. Dean welcomed the small changes and smiled at Cas encouragingly each time he got it right. When Castiel got the hang of how long to boil water and discovered the recipe-saturated world of Pinterest, he began to try more difficult recipes. Over months, things evolved from store bought, pre-made rotisserie chickens with homemade rosemary potatoes and steamed asparagus to completely homemade chicken burritos oozing with cheese and smothered in sour cream and Cas’s very own guacamole (take that Martha Stewart). Cas had long since stopped asking “is it too salty” or “can you taste the lemon” because he knew no, it wasn’t too salty and yes, Dean could taste the lemon. Instead he just continued to cook and when he’d mastered charbroiled bacon cheeseburgers with garlic mayonnaise and made-from-scratch sweet potato fries, he moved on to learning to bake. Pineapple upside down cakes and lemon bars and crème brulee and, pies.(Oh, the pies!)

Soon Dean was calling the kitchen “the other man” because it got more action than he did and he’d lost count of how many more foodgasms than orgasms he’d had since Cas had started to get the hang of things. 

Christmas rolled around and Dean had a second oven put in the kitchen as Cas’s gift (Cas had responded positively with an enthusiastic blow job and blueberry tart). And one of Dean’s favorite things in the world was coming home after a long day at work, seeing Cas bent over into the oven to retrieve that night’s dessert. Too many times had Cas turned around, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, flour smudged across his cheek, to find Dean stealing a pervy glance at his ass before removing his own tie from his collar and approaching Cas like it didn’t matter that the kitchen floor was hard and the windows were open, they were going to have sex anyway. Right the fuck there.

Dean stopped making lunch meetings because saying no to left overs was an absolute tragedy to Dean’s stomach and in the space it’d been since Cas had learned to cook Dean had gone up a pants size. (“Time to start using that gym membership Sammy got me”, he’d say after dinner when he was too full for sex but planned on appeasing Cas anyway).

How Cas had time for it all was a mystery to everyone. He still had a full-time job but was so often found with his nose in recipe books or updating the blog he’d started when he’d started inventing his own recipes (3,364 followers, nothing to brag about) that it was a wonder he had time for anything else. 

Soon three years had gone by, Cas was a magnificent cook (Dean almost preferred him in the kitchen to the bedroom because have you tried his mini Philly Cheesesteaks?!) and because Dean had said “I love you” for the first time around a mouthful of Cas’s very first homemade apple pie, it only seemed right that the next step in their relationship involve Cas in the kitchen. 

The usual routine was for Cas to arrive home around 4 o’ clock. He’d patter around the kitchen, humming to himself, waiting for Dean to get home as the rich smells of some kind of pasta or steak filled the air. Dean would come home a short time later, fawn over the meal, they’d eat, probably make-out for awhile, talk about their days and go to bed.

Little did he know, tonight would be different.

At 3 o’clock, Dean left the office, nervously tapping his foot at red lights and drumming his fingers anxiously on the Impala’s steering wheel. He was relieved to find the driveway vacant when he got home and quickly pulled the Impala into the garage where he knew, ironically, Cas would never see it. Entering the kitchen he searched through the kitchen drawers for Cas’s favorite oven mitt (it had come recommended by Paula Dean herself) fumbling with it for a moment before placing it on top of all the other oven mitts Cas had acquired to make sure it was the one he’d use tonight. Hearing Cas’s key being shoved into the lock, Dean slipped around the corner and waited, knees shaky and breath hitching every so often. He waited patiently as Cas pre-heated the oven, pulled the enchiladas he had started before work out of the fridge and set to searching for ingredients for fried ice cream for dessert. 

It was a good 30 minutes before Cas was getting ready to check the enchiladas and Dean watched from around the corner as Cas pulled the drawer open and got out the oven mitt Dean had so carefully placed earlier. He held his breath as Cas put his left hand in to the mitt and stopped short from reaching into the oven. His back went ramrod straight and Dean knew he had found it. 

Cas pulled his hand out of the mitt and stared at the object in his palm in awe. A simple titanium ring shined up at him and Cas’s chest suddenly felt tight. There was a quiet ruffle of clothing behind him and when Cas turned around, he found Dean down on his knees staring up at him trying desperately to mask the anxiety he was feeling inside. 

“Dean?” Cas questioned looking from the ring to his boyfriend kneeling before him.

“Hey, Cas.” Dean said with one of his trade-mark charming smiles. 

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean reached his hand out and took the hand that wasn’t gently closed around the ring, pulling Castiel closer. “Cas,” he asked looking up into the pools of blue that were Cas’s eyes, “will you cook for me forever?” Dean asked plain and simple, the question in his eyes causing Cas’s heart to pound three times as fast as usual. He grabbed Dean by the lapels of his suit jacket and pulled him to his feet answering with a furiously passionate kiss that was all teeth and tongue. 

“Yes,” Cas gasped into Dean’s mouth, “you assbutt, yes.” And then Dean felt himself being pulled into the living room and there was no time to make it to the bedroom, the couch would have to do. 

That night for the first time in years, Castiel burnt dinner.

And for the first time in years he didn’t care one bit.


End file.
